


Footprints Swept Away In The Wind

by HalfshellVenus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Slash, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfshellVenus/pseuds/HalfshellVenus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Season One): Five first-times, based on the senses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footprints Swept Away In The Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Written during early S1, and reposted here for archiving.

~*~

**~ Sight ~**

It was a close thing this time— and very nearly the end for Sam. 

The ride back to the motel is silent, strained. Sam thinks it’s almost worse that Dean isn’t yelling at him. He heads into the bathroom immediately, taking refuge behind the barrier of that door. When he’s cleaned up— and ready to deal with the fallout— he comes out to an empty motel room. It’s unsettling. 

He opens the door to the parking lot quietly, carefully. Dean is outside in the moonlight, no doubt beating himself up more than usual. When Sam comes upon him and sees the brightness in Dean’s eyes, he forces his way in—muscling through Dean’s protests and desperate attempts not to need him. Dean’s single tear is both of their undoing, and Sam’s kiss bestows forgiveness and acknowledgement and _want._

Dean shivers under the presence of Sam’s love, shattered by the reflection of his driven-down needs coming back to haunt him. Sam both destroys him and resurrects him in the span of a single night, and Dean wakes to Sam’s hand upon his chest that says he is neither forgotten nor about to be released.

 

 **~ Touch ~**

It is one of those bad nights when they sleep in the car— the kind where they tell themselves they’ll just pull over for awhile, but then they never make it back onto the road again.

Sam awakens to the steering wheel in his shoulder and Dean’s heart under his ears. He must have leaned and slid in his sleep until he pushed Dean into the corner, and here he is hogging what little front seat they’ve got. 

The steady beat against him is soothing, almost mesmerizing, and it takes Sam a moment to notice Dean’s arms holding him like he’s welcome to just take all of what Dean has. It comes to Sam in that moment that… he _is_ , and that he always has been. Dean gives everything away that matters, and refuses to take anything for himself that is not couched in jokes or pranks or digs. 

Dean holds Sam like he belongs here, like they belong Yin and Yang, Sun and Moon, together. In the quiet space inside Dean’s arms, Sam can see now how true that all is. All these years he was running away to get to Normal, he never saw that Dean was dying to be important enough for anyone to just _stay_.

Sam tries to move Dean into a more comfortable position, shifting Dean’s head and burrowing back in. 

“You okay?” Dean mumbles, and Sam kisses his chest in answer. “I’m fine,” he says hoarsely, as Dean’s hand moves up to stroke the waves in Sam’s hair. 

Sam’s eyes close. This could be the beginning of anything, or of nothing, but he’s done running and scarring-over and just _taking_. Whatever might come of this, he’ll embrace it of his own choosing. And he’ll follow it wherever Dean needs him to.

 

 **~ Sound ~**

Sam is miles— _miles_ — into his mistake, stuck in a terminal waiting for the next bus. Talking to Dean on the phone (and he doesn’t remember which of them called the other), the words and the sounds he’s hearing don’t quite make sense.

 _Go_ , Dean says. _Do what you have to do. I’ll always be proud of you._

But the sound of Dean’s voice says something else entirely. _I knew this would happen… You left again. And I’m breaking to pieces here alone. But I’ll help you do what you have to, even if it kills me. Even knowing that what I want has never mattered to anyone but me._

Dean’s words say _I’ll see you soon_ , but the choked-out pain in them just says _Goodbye._

Sam can hear the difference, the finality of the underlying message. Suddenly, being right is less important than having left Dean to fight his opponent alone. Sam’s about-face is every bit as rapid as that angry departure was, and he can’t get back fast enough. He could kill himself when he sees that he’s almost too late.

Leaving _again_ — to get that stolen car back— he wonders if Dean can trust him to be at the back-end bus station the same way he trusts Dean to meet him there. 

He thinks about it the entire drive there, about the uncertainty that defines their lives and about the constancy of each other being the only ammunition against it. 

When Dean arrives, Sam tries to tell him everything Dean needs to hear. Dean’s face is still and sad… and then he ass-hooks the whole moment with his usual sarcasm. Sam pushes that fake hug away, lets Dean play his game over to the car. 

They climb inside, close the doors, and then Sam is done with pandering to Dean’s false dignity. 

He pulls Dean over, crushes him to his chest, but Dean stiffens and pushes back. Dean will not give in to a promise too often broken.

But they are warriors cut from the same cloth, and Sam has always been the more stubborn of the two of them. He brings the big guns to bear, arms steel-band tight around Dean as he kisses him fiercely, nakedly. In his embrace, under his mouth, Sam feels Dean’s shock become _But—_ become broken. He kisses Dean into tears, until Dean is laid bare before him and Sam’s meaning has finally reached his heart.

Sam’s lips on Dean’s face and mouth say _I’m sorry._ And Dean’s eyes, looking back at him so openly— so seriously— say _I know._

 

** ~ Taste ~ **

The murky light in the motel room makes Sam’s eyes feel like they’re bleeding. He’d been looking at the computer for hours while Dean shifted from guns to knives to maps with attentive, loving hands. 

Finally, Dean’s restless energy had no place to focus, and he’d left to get some air. That seems like a long time ago, now that Sam has risen out of his research-fog. The sun is low in the sky, slanting across the dust motes drifting through the room’s still air. The world is quiet outside, this town forgotten, and Sam wonders when Dean is coming back. He looks down at the screen again, opening an archive of ancient Celtic myths. “Blodeuwedd” catches his eye, and he falls into the merciless half-romantic tale of the spell-spun maiden turned into an owl for her unfaithful heart. 

He hardly notices the door opening behind him, and the arm curving around him with an offering catches him by surprise.

It’s a soft-serve vanilla-orange swirl cone— the kind Sam hasn’t seen since they were kids and would pass through the East Coast on their travels. He takes it, licking a circle around the creamsicle-flavored top, and looks up at Dean with the smile of a 6-year-old given his favorite treat. The taste brings back everything— sunlit sidewalks and picnic tables sandwiched between being locked in the car or left at the hotel with Dean. Sam remembers that feeling of liberation when he was out in the open air— where the rest of life, it seemed, was always happening to everyone else.

In his worst memories, there are flames and fear and loud noises and blood. There are dark things with fangs and dead things with living eyes. 

In his best memories, there is Dean. Beside him when Sam needed him, solid against childhood nightmares and the uncertainty of nowhere being home. Dean would laugh at Sam’s silliness away from their father’s disapproving eyes, and help him practice in private the things Sam could never learn under pressure. Dean remembered to make Sam feel special, and listened on the days Sam cried. 

Sam yanks out a chair, pulls Dean down into it while the other hand offers him a much-deserved taste. Dean leans forward, steadies Sam’s hand with his own while nibbling, swirling over the ice cream and its cool-sweet tangy-soft flavor. His surprised smile catches at Sam’s heart, holding it as Dean goes in for another lick. A loose feeling of giddiness has Sam alternating turns with Dean, getting closer and more reckless until his tongue collides with the corner of Dean’s mouth.

And _oh—_ the skin there is sandpaper-satin, so different and tempting and forbidden. Dean turns slowly, eyes sparked by interest/shock/surprise. 

Sam makes it easy for him, tongue sweeping shamelessly over his upper lip as his eyes watch the pink swell of Dean’s mouth.

That mouth parts slightly, moving closer until it is covering Sam’s. The icy-silk sensation gives way to heat and the flavor of endless summer. Sam sets the ice cream on the table, leaving it to its forgotten fate as he shift-slides into Dean, crawling inside that feeling of remembered happiness that is still here before him, just waiting to be found.

 

** ~ Smell ~ **

It is the end of a drawn-out, thankless day when they finally retire to the motel. Sam is in the room putting things away while Dean brings in the cooler and his base-protection guns, knives, holy water and salt. 

Dean closes the door behind him, moving slowly, shoulders hunched. Sam steps over to take part of the load, and leaning in… he stops. It must be raining outside now, because the clean-sweet smell of rain is all over Dean, rising from his wet clothes. The heat of Dean’s chest reaches Sam’s face through Dean’s shirt, and Sam turns toward that warm, soft, _living_ scent reaching out to him. He grabs and sets down the cooler, with Dean just tired and unmoving in the space Sam has blocked him into. When Sam rises up along the length of him, he can see Dean’s weary face. It has a sheen of moisture on the cheeks, and Dean’s lashes and lips are dotted with raindrops. Sam is too worn-out to care that wanting to consume those beads of water on Dean’s mouth does not mean it’s a good idea to actually _do_ it, and he is there— _there_ — before his sensible side even has a chance to speak.

…

Dean is crowded against the door by Sam’s closeness. He is too exhausted to be in a hurry, and just waits for Sam to get out of the way. Dean’s mind is wandering, catching briefly on unpacking his weapons and going to bed, and then suddenly Sam is leaning in and kissing him before he even knows what’s happening. _It—What— Ohhh…_ Dean stands there frozen, captured by desire. He hardly knows what to call it at first, this inability to move, the way he responds to Sam’s thorough, _ardent_ attention. That slow sweep of Sam’s tongue inside his mouth makes Dean’s knees wobble, and he feels the heat move down his body straight into his groin, where it pools and swells and burns so beautifully strong. Dean’s mouth slides to an angle and he opens it wider, tonguing Sam back and feeling the sharp hitch of Sam’s teeth on the side of his lips. 

The arm carrying the weapons pack comes around Sam’s waist. It holds him tight, tighter as the other arm reaches up, fingers aligned on the edge of Sam’s jaw as Dean dives in and loses himself to this surging tide of lust. Sam backs up against the nearest bed as he pulls Dean forward, urging Dean down on top of him as he goes. 

Dean follows all too willingly, pushing his burden off to the side so he can focus in on Sam’s clear and unmistakable _want._ For months, Sam has waited to be absolved of the destiny keeping him here. Now he has shifted finally to seeing what’s right in front of him—his brother who so badly needs and misses him all at once. This change is such a shocking wealth of riches that Dean can barely get a handle on it. He tongue-fucks Sam, rolling up against him, bucking slowly up between Sam’s parted legs. Dean can feel Sam’s reaction, feels his own hardness threatening to break through.

Underneath him— _choosing_ him— is everything Dean ever wanted. Sam is laid out before him, urging Dean closer, stronger. Dean gives himself over to every pushed-down longing he has ever refused to acknowledge, dropping his defenses and just taking everything Sam offers. He has to— _needs_ to—give it, have it, _own_ it all. They curl together, hands and mouths on each other inseparably as they stroke and join and rise and roil in the deepest, sweetest agony of fulfillment. Dean is half in and out of his own body as it unfolds, floating through a haze of unreality. It is all so achingly perfect and unbelievable that he just can’t be sure it’s even happening.

Nothing has ever touched him all the way down inside where his secret self lives. 

When it happens, that full-circle completion he has never, ever felt before, Dean finally knows why.

There is no-one else he ever wanted to let that far in. 

There is no-one else he’d be willing to let stay.

 

_\---------- fin ----------_


End file.
